I waited until I heard Mrs. Hodder’s footsteps recede from the closed door before I removed my hat and coat and sat down. The housekeeper had not offered to take our wraps, a hint that we should not stay long.

“Who is your quiet friend?” Mr. Fielding asked me, resuming his seat and lifting his teacup. “May I make his acquaintance?”

Cynthia, who’d taken the chair next to mine, swept off her hat and tossed it to a bench under the window. “Her acquaintance. Lady Cynthia Shires, at your service, sir.”

Mr. Fielding’s hand jerked, tea spilling over his wrist. He hastily set down the cup, shaking out his fingers and snatching up his napkin.

“Good Lord.” Mr. Fielding peered at Lady Cynthia in delight as he wiped off his hands. “Such an elegant young lady, but wearing the drab clothes we chaps are forced into day after day. What made you take it up?”

“If you must ask, then you will never understand.” Cynthia gave him a weary look and sipped her tea.

“Perhaps not. I am very curious—how do you keep from being arrested? But then, you said Lady Cynthia, which means an aristocratic connection. Is your father a duke, a marquess, or an earl?”

I answered, somewhat sharply, “An earl. But we have come about urgent business, Mr. Fielding. I suggest you curb your questions for another time.”

Mr. Fielding flicked his blue gaze to me. I saw a worry deep in his eyes, which flared and died in the space of an instant. Then his smile spread over his face.

“You do right to admonish me, Mrs. Holloway. This is no time to be frivolous. You must have discovered something important to journey all the way to Shadwell, with only this lady as escort.”

“I have.” I saw no reason not to dive straight into the matter. “Nurse Betts. You know her. Not only do you know her, but you have been seen several times with her. The cook at the Foundling Hospital believes you have become her beau.”

Mr. Fielding’s smile died, as did anything good-humored on his face. “Yes, Daniel has already twitted me for this. My fault for believing I’d been discreet.”

“It is true then? You are walking out with her?”

Mr. Fielding sagged back into his chair. “Yes, I confess it. I am very fond of Nurse Betts.”

And now she was missing. When Mr. Fielding looked at me again, I saw a man in misery.

Cynthia pulled a flask from her pocket, reached across the table, and poured a dollop of pungent whisky into his tea. “Have a sip of that. Will pull you together.”

Mr. Fielding hid his start and drank obediently, some color returning to his face.

“Why did you not simply tell me at once?” I asked him as he recovered. “Or Daniel. If you are well acquainted with Nurse Betts, you might help suggesting places to search for her.”